


Whiskey and Cinnamon

by petit_moineau



Series: Partout [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drunk Sex, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petit_moineau/pseuds/petit_moineau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was just about to take a bite when this girl cleared her throat at me. She was wearing this flimsy purple dress. she had the longest legs, curly black hair down to there. and she was glaring at me over her reading glasses, book in hand. Sexy librarian? Hell, yes.  That pretty much sealed my fate. I was in love with Éponine Thénardier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey and Cinnamon

I was just looking for a place to eat my sandwich.

Okay, and I wanted it to be kind of quiet, too. It was only noon and this day was already way too damn long.

I found the perfect bench—nice breeze, decent sunlight, view of the pond—and sank down. I was just about to take a bite when this girl cleared her throat at me. She was wearing this flimsy purple dress and Jesus Christ she had the longest legs, curly black hair down to _there_ and she was glaring at me over her reading glasses, book in hand. Sexy librarian? Hell, yes.

“Can I help you?” I asked, grinning.

“Yes, by going away. You’re blocking my sun.”

I rolled my eyes. “Public park, isn’t it?”

She did _not_ look pleased, but she sighed a little. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“What tipped you off? The raging Irish accent?” I laughed and leaned in closer. Holy fuck, this girl’s eyes. I’d thought they were brown, but they had little bits of gold in them. “My name’s Jamie Courfeyrac, but I usually just go by my last name.” I stuck out a hand to this girl, hoping I’d get a smile, her name, and a phone number. I know how to play this game.

She looked at my hand, considering, then finally took it. She had the tiniest hands, and her nails were dark purple, like her dress. “Mine’s Éponine. Éponine Thénardier. Sometimes my friends call me Ép, or Ponine.”

I grinned again. “Does that mean I can call you Ponine? That’s cute.”

She smirked. Not a smile, but at least she’d stopped glaring. “Who said you’re my friend?”

Take it easy, Courfeyrac. Don’t want to scare her. “I can be, if you’ll let me.”

She smiled, slowly, barely, but it was there. “What do you do, Jamie-called-Courfeyrac?”

“Pre-law. History and political science at NYU. What do you do, Éponine-not-yet-Ponine?”

“Art history, Columbia.”

I whistled, impressed. I’d had trouble scrounging up the money for NYU; I couldn’t imagine how much Columbia would cost. She didn’t look or act like much of a rich girl, though. “What year?”

“First; you?” She set aside her book. Good, this meant she didn’t intend to shoo me away any time soon.

“Second,” I answered. “And may I inquire as to the young lady’s age?” Not that it mattered, per se, because she’s fucking gorgeous, but I’d like to make sure she’s not one of those child prodigies who entered university at fifteen. I breathed a sigh of relief when she answered that as of one hour ago, she was nineteen. “You should come out tonight, then, with me and the lads.” Oh, shit, she’s laughing at me. “No, no, it’s not like that. We go to a bar every couple of days and talk and eat and hang out. You’d like them, I’d bet. And they’d like you. But don’t worry about them picking you up, half of them are gay.” She raised one eyebrow at me, and I winked at her. Christ, I was winking now? That was new, even for me, the resident flirt. But how else was I supposed to say that I was definitely available without just stating the obvious?

It took two hours of gentle convincing. I started off by asking her what she liked to study best, what she did in her spare time, what she was reading. I wasn’t just being courteous. I really wanted to know. She surprised me by asking just as much about me as I had about her. She liked raspberry tea. She had insomnia. She liked impressionism and modern architecture. She changed the subject so fast my head hurt when I asked her about her family. I told her what there was to tell—I didn’t fit into Catholic Ireland, law seemed interesting, I liked 80s rock music and jam bands.

I told her about my friends, how Enjolras was way too serious and convinced he’d change the entire world. How Joly was so germophobic he nearly stroked out taking the subway, but wanted to be a doctor. How Musichetta was a baker who took her chemistry to her hair, with sometimes horrible results. How Bossuet was singlehandedly the most unlucky person on the planet, but a gifted physics student. How the three of them were in a three-way relationship that made sense only to them. How Feuilly buried himself in constellations and had a surprising knack for turning paper into artwork. How Jehan was an absolute nutter with more love for life than anyone I knew. How Combeferre struggled through pre-med classes with more determination than anyone I knew. How Bahorel was absolutely, terrifyingly huge and could kill a man with his bare hands and, surprisingly, changed weekly between majoring in psychology or literature.

I was shocked that I didn’t have to tell her about Grantaire or Marius. She and Grantaire met in high school. “I know all about Marius,” she said, biting her lip. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.” Was that a blush I saw? Well, we’re going to have to change that.

By some miracle, I got her to go out with me, plying her with the promise of more birthday drinks than she could handle. She laughed at that, promising me with a grin that she could drink anyone under the table. Grantaire took to her immediately, but then again, Grantaire seemed to take to most women. Enjolras was nice enough, or as nice as he ever is, but he turned back to his book with a sigh pointed at Grantaire. Everyone in the whole world knew they were mad for each other—except them, of course. Jehan, as only he could, kissed her cheeks and spewed poetry about the beauty of her eyes. She toasted his wit. And just like that, she was one of us.

I bought her a water and whiskey. She took it like a champ. I wasn’t sure whether I was impressed or frightened, but Grantaire howled and called for more. I wanted to warn him somehow that this wasn’t going to end well for him, that Enjolras would get pissed and leave, but that would be pointing out That Thing We Don’t Talk About. I got her out on the dance floor a few drinks later, and I’ll be goddamned if she wasn’t the best dancer I’d ever seen. No trace of the alcohol in her, no ‘white-girl-wasted’ syndrome. “What is it you do again, Miss Éponine Thénardier?” I asked as she whirled away from me.

She came back toward me and grinded up on me so hard that I had to bite down on the inside of my cheek _hard_. Jesus fuck. “Burlesque,” she whispered in my ear. “I do burlesque.”

I spun her around and kissed her, gripping her hips. She tasted like whiskey and cinnamon, and I groaned.

Neither of us could remember how we got back to my apartment. Maybe it was alcohol, or loneliness, or literal fate, which I’d never believed in before, but might have to start now. But one way or the other, she fell into my bed that night, and that pretty much sealed my fate.

I was in love with Éponine Thénardier.

**Author's Note:**

> Go home, Courfeyrac, you're drunk. But I mean, we all know that he's going to fall in love with her eventually. And while Eponine is on scholarship, we now know how she pays her bills.


End file.
